The Phantom Before the Opera
by Isrufel Valis
Summary: The auction that began the Phantom of the Opera also sends an old man into the world of memory, of his past. The story of the Phantom from the very beginning. Erik POV. Please R&R.
1. Old Memories Die Here

**Author's Note:** Ever since I heard of this site I've wanted to do a PTO (that's how Erik signed his note to Firmin so if he doesn't care about the _of_ then I don't either) fanfic, but I needed some practice first so I wrote a fanfic for the Odyssey first. It's okay, but I wrote it in ninth grade so I think the writing isn't very good.

If the Daft Penguin ever visits (bows deeply and mutters "my master") hope you like it, and the offer to post your awesome PTO scenarios is still open.

If Lestat (bows even deeper and says "my maker") or Raven ever visit (mood-depending) I hope you also enjoy it, and you better review or I'll, I'll…. (well, you know me, utterly powerless unless it comes to words…)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the characters (yet), including Erik (sighs deeply, and begins sobbing). I also do not own the lines quoted for the auction used in the cast recording. Nor do I own the ideas that came from Leroux's book, mainly the coffin. In fact I don't own anything so I'm weak _and _poor. (sigh)

**Chapter 1: Old Memories Die Here**

The mask, as long as he could remember, there had always been the mask…

The Phantom stirred from his deep torpor. He reached up and touched the smooth white whiteness. Yes, it was still there, and would be to his dying day.

Dying, he mused, what a fascinating prospect, to just, not be. He hadn't been suicidal very often, and wasn't now, but his mind always strayed to this subject, to dying. During his abnormally long, tortured life he had had a lot of time to think, especially about life and death.

In reality his longevity was a miracle. He should be dead, but still he hung on.

He was back in his Opera House, in his lair. All that was left in these abandoned cellars was dust and decay. His collection had long ago been removed, and his world disassembled. He and his strivings had been reduced to a mere memory; he was now barely even a myth seeing that the Opéra Populaire was not in use. Erik pulled himself into a standing position. He surveyed the wondrous ruin that surrounded him. He had come back, to old memories and forgotten places, to become the ghost he had once named himself. Erik had come here to be done, to die.

The end was drawing near anyway. Why should he not spend his last days in the place that had meant so much to him? This was his home, if he'd ever had one.

Here he was, old and decrepit, ready to leave this world for another.

He walked over toward his coffin, one of the few things that had been left in his lair. All that lay inside was a single red rose that he had managed to procure before coming down here.

Now for his funeral. There would be no speech. There would be no witnesses. He was alone, just as he always had been.

He went and picked up the rose. These material objects brought back so many memories. He reached into his pocket and drew out a long, black silk ribbon. The memory associated here was painful, still fresh, as if it had been yesterday. The ends of the ribbon were frayed, but the ribbon itself was still intact, preserved carefully over the long years. It was proof that he had never truly let go. Not even now. He would die with his memories in his hands in the form of a rose with a black ribbon, his symbol. He tied the ribbon with unsteady hand.

Was he ready to end this life, which he had endured for so long? Yes. The answer was, most definitely, yes.

Noises began to echo through his lair. Who could it possibly be? Who would have returned after so long?


	2. The Worth of a Music Box

**Author's Note:**If anyone (especially the Daft Penguin, Lestat, or Raven) reads this they better review or I'll... Well we've already discussed this. I can't do anything, so, oh well. Review, pretty please, and I might consider letting you see Erik again. (gestures to room now disguised as torture chamber, but is really in-house suite with everything and then some) (crosses fingers and hopes for reviews, or at least a few hits) 

**Disclaimer:**I don't own PTO (except on CD, and DVD, and the book, and...) 

**Chapter 2: The Worth of a Music Box**

Erik moved up toward the ground floors of the Opera. It took several hours for his unsteady feet to go from the lowest extremities of the Opera to the main stage.

He realized that he was still holding the rose. He slipped it into a pocket in his coat. The funeral could wait. He could resign himself to death when he had stayed this curiosity.

He headed to box five, his box. As he approached he heard a voice filtering down the hall.

"Lot 125…"

He crept silently into the box and peered over the edge. An auction! There was a small crowd gathered, bidding for the various objects. The Phantom pulled up his footstool and settled down to watch.

A few of the faces were familiar, though all worn with age. Of the few he recognized he noted Mme. Giry, Meg.

Erik recognized almost every piece that was being sold. This was his life, this was almost all he had ever known, and now, like his lair, it was slowly being torn apart.

Almost halfway through the 600s, another familiar face came. It was _him,_ the only man to have opposed the Phantom and won. Raoul. Erik bit his lip. He then realized that he held no hate for this character now. He had fulfilled his wedding vows, and more, to his love, the love still shared by Erik.

His thoughts were interrupted by the auctioneer. "Lot 663, then, ladies and gentlemen: a poster for this house's production of 'Hannibal' by Chalumeau." Ah, Hannibal. Erik remembered this play very clearly. It had somewhat annoying music whose true beauty could only be brought out by a certain few.

The auctioneer continued on, and Erik witnessed the inevitable eye contact between Meg and Raoul.

The next lot caught his attention. "Lot 665, ladies and gentlemen: a papier-mâché musical box, in the shape of a barrel-organ. Attached, the figure of a monkey in Persian robes, playing the cymbals. This item, discovered in the vaults of the theatre, still in working order."

"Showing here."

The bidding began. "May I start at twenty francs? Fifteen, then? Fifteen I am bid. Thank you sir, twenty. Twenty-five, thank you madam. Thirty, selling at thirty then, thirty once, twice—. Sold for thirty francs to the Vicomte de Changny. Thank you, sir."

Erik felt the irony hit him in full force. He was worth the same amount as a music box. The small thing, which could play but one song with its tinkling notes was of equal value to him, the great genius, the composer? As a composer and singer he created music. It welled up and flowed from his soul. As its creator, he was not its angel, but its god.


	3. More Old Memories

**Author's Note:** Sorry for being so long to update, but I write this down on paper first, and I left my notebook at someone's house, so it had to stay there all week.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything, except for my small additions at the end of the auction scene. (Read on, I'm not going to tell and ruin it; p.s.-it's in the next chapter) And, no matter how hard I try the rulers of book and movie world (aka industry) won't give me creative license for Erik (sniff). Perhaps it's because he isn't my idea… But I would have thought of him first if I had been born sooner, really! Of course, then the book would be horrible, and not in French, and there wouldn't have been a play or a movie, and of the phangirls (including me) would be nonexistent, and I would be the author of POTO, and therefore this would not be a fanfiction so what I am writing wouldn't exist anyway… (yay for twisted logic and run-on sentences!)

—

**Chapter 3: More Old Memories**

Erik shook his head, and turned back to the proceedings. The auctioneer continued.

"Lot 666 then, a chandelier in pieces. Some of you may recall the strange affair of the Phantom of the Opera— a mystery never fully explained…" Erik was now riveted… They were discussing him, and the legacy of mystery he had left. A small smile lit his face. He had become infamous, a legend, a true Phantom. No, not quite. In a little while, after he reached eternal rest, then, then he would be phantomized; a mere memory, a myth surrounding the destruction of this Opera house. "…We are told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures into the famous disaster. Our workshops have restored it, and fitted up parts of it with wiring for the new electric light, so that we may get a hint of what it may look like when we assemble it. Perhaps we may frighten away the ghost of so many years ago with a little illumination. Gentlemen—" The auctioneer stopped with an expectant pause.

As the chandelier was raised Erik's heart filled with rage. Scare him away would they? Didn't they know who he was? If he had been any younger… Well, he was not young, in fact far from it. Besides, being far too emotional and letting his blind rage control him had always been his problem. No, he would let them all live, but he would give them a lasting memory that the Opera Ghost was still here!

—

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the short chapters. I just stop where a natural break seems to come for me, so I can't guarantee anything for the future.


	4. A Reminder and a Gift Given

**Author's Note: **Louis apologizes to the Daft Penguin for the show of loyalty to Lestat and acknowledges the fact that former said person revealed all existence of this site to Louis. Louis thanks his Master for his kindness, but also feels that it is necessary to remind his Master that maker usually is placed above master. Louis also accuses both Master and Maker to be extremely evil in all regards to the matter (or scandal if you both prefer) dealing with Okami-jin. (Translation: Wolf-boy (for those who don't speak Japanese)) Louis shall now stop talking in third person seeing as it is weird and only used for effect. By the way the entire title of this chapter didn't fit, so I had to use a shortened version.

**Disclaimer:** I own absolutely nothing. (maybe I need a job…) Actually I own most of the plot, but not the characters.

—

**Chapter 4: A Reminder for the Forgetful and a Gift For Those Not Forgotten**

Erik pulled a ring from his finger and began to fiddle with it, plotting. He put it back on his finger and stared down at its buyer. As Erik pulled himself up he saw the Vicomte being wheeled away. What he would give to be able to use one of those to get where he was headed. Unfortunately this could not be.

As quickly as possible Erik moved steadily upward until he reached the rotunda that held the chandelier. Its curvature was a perfect megaphone for his voice, a simple trick he had used many times before. His skills as a ventriloquist also helped, but at the moment it didn't matter.

He raised his voice, joy filling him as everyone below leapt out of their seats.

"The Phantom lives. He is still and always will be here. Do not forget!" Erik pulled out his long thin knife and cut the rope holding the chandelier. Surely they would still remember this trick, he mused as the chandelier fell, shattering once more. Erik was sure that this time it would not be repaired. He smiled, turned heel and left.

o-o-o

Erik made his way through the secret passages in the walls. When he reached ground floor he stopped and peered blinkingly into the light, a phenomenon he had rarely seen in his lifetime, and, if all went out well, he would never see again.

He saw the shape of Meg Giry standing on the steps observing the departure of Raoul in his car. The car drove away and Meg was left alone.

Erik turned to go and realized that ring had fallen off his finger. He bent over to pick it up (quite a feat) when a sudden thought struck him.

He drew out the rose and slid the ring onto the ribbon, securing it carefully. He walked out into the light and approached Meg, holding out the rose.

"For Christine," he murmured softly, though he was sure she had heard him. "Hurry. Please." He directed a pleading gaze at her as he sunk back into the shadows. He waited to see what she would do.

Meg stood for a moment before the shocked look on her face was replaced with one of resolution. She turned and hailed a taxi, quickly getting in. As Erik turned and began the slow descent back to his lair, Meg bore the rose to the cemetery, her taxi passing a stalled car that sat on the side of the road. This vehicle contained a faintly annoyed man who was headed to the same destination; gift in hand, in the form of a monkey-topped music box.


	5. The Tale Begins

**Author's Note: **My Master, I note your confusion in reference to 'he who must not be named'/Okami-jin, but I would have thought that you would have made the connection between real and pseudonym due to the fact that Okami-jin is Japanese. Therefore my reference was related to (to quote) "diver-kid Japanese-Samurai-Know-it-all from camp". (if you were really wondering)

Also if you would please note, there is a very good reason for having the word 'god' in chapter 2 be lowercase g. In the bible the word 'God' refers to the one true God, our savior, and 'god' refers to lesser/false gods of the gentiles. So I am not trying to be a blasphemer! I do not believe Erik to be God.

Thirdly, my kind, wonderful Master, would you help me to persuade Lestat to read this? And if such request is refused, will you help me attack Lestat on Sunday? If you would it would be ever so helpful.

Louis

**Disclaimer: **I own nothing except for the last sentence.

—

**Chapter 5: The Tale Begins**

Erik moved dreamily through the passages he had traversed through his liftime. He had fallen deep into the often turbulent pool of memory.

Images of his past flitted right before his eyes, ready to flood his waking mind if he reached for them.

Erik dwelt on Christine and his journey with her through these same passages… No, he must not. To dwell in this past brought only pain and the feeling of things lost.

Instead his mind wandered to another journey, the first time he had walked these passageways; not knowing what his future held, or even if he would live until the next day. Of course, such a thing had never been certain.

Erik kept drifting backward. Back to the very beginning.

o-o-o

Erik sifted through his memories, trying to find the earliest. Dimly, he remembered images of a woman he assumed to be his mother, but nothing was certain. This figure presided through most of his earliest memories, but the first clear reminiscences dealt with the monastery…

—

**Author's Note: **I know that this chapter was short too, and I apologize, but I wanted to fit another chapter in before I left to go to Jamaica for a week. Bye! I'll update when I get back.


	6. Little Brother of the Monastery

**Author's Note: **Okay. You will either love this chapter, or not be able to figure out where my crazy brain is going with this. (most likely the latter) I have decided to start taking a little more creative license than usual and have gone outside the realm of Leroux and Webber. If you look carefully (or maybe not so carefully) you can see that most of it is really tied in with the story. (No spoilers—you have to find those all by yourself)

To my Master: I am hurt that you have not reviewed my last chapter. I have given you an entire week! (which is an entire week I was stuck away from the internet) I am sure due explanations can take up at least a third of the bus ride up to camp, if that pleases my Master. Or, as is more likely, we will spend the time discussing scandal, and how Lestat ruined my life, which are one and the same subject, so… Anyways see you on Sunday!

**Disclaimer: ** I own all of the characters, except for Erik (sniff). I still want creative license—even if it makes this fanfic a paradox. (see earlier disclaimer-chapter 3)

—

**Chapter 6: Little Brother of the Monastery**

A young Erik rose from his simple pallet before the sun, an ungodly hour, but strangely the best time to meet with God.

He was always up this early, but usually he used this time to think.

It was so easy in the monastery to find a place of solitude and meditate on a solution to whatever particular problem his mind came up with, whether mathematical, architectural or some other oddity of the world.

Sometimes he would go to Brother Timothy for ideas on a particularly hard one.

All of the monks in the monastery were distant to Erik, except for Timothy. Timothy was one of the younger scribes at the monastery and had been Erik's tutor in everything he wanted to learn. Brother Timothy had seen the promise in the young child's eyes, and had marveled as he watched him excel at everything he tried.

Erik was working on and steadily improving his reading skills (running to Timothy whenever the words became too long) but his writing still remained atrocious. Erik had expressed his extreme dislike for the subject, and Brother Timothy had graciously refrained from forcing it on him.

But Erik's talent really shone in the realm of music. As a young infant one of the few ways to get him to stop fussing was to bring him to chapel and let him listen to the choir. There, a sense of wonder spread over Erik's tiny face at the beautiful sounds.

Erik had learned to read and write music long before he had attempted to read or write.

As soon as he was old enough to be able to stand on his own, Erik had begged to be allowed to sing in the choir. He was allowed to join at five, mainly to stop him singing throughout the halls during the days of silence. Erik promised to respect these days, and he began to sing. The choir leader found that he needed to give very little instruction to the young boy. He seemed to learn intuitively. The entire choir loved the sound of his angelic voice soaring high with the sopranos and sometimes ranging to a low alto. As he aged they found his ability to sing even bass lines with the same childlike purity. In mind and mouth song reigned as he worshipped the King of Heaven and Earth.

But for now Erik craved silence, silence by which he could hear the voice of God. His inquisitive mind had a question, a question that needed answering.

Erik wandered through the still dark, empty halls. He knew that he could supposedly converse with God anywhere, but he needed a place where he wouldn't be disturbed. He needed a place where the business of the natural world wouldn't interfere with his link to the supernatural one.

Erik finally decided on a small garden in one of the corners of the monastery. He settled himself behind the statue of two large, winged cherubim gazing serenely towards the heavens. Erik fell into silence. If there was one thing the other monks had tried to ingrain in him above all else, it was the value of silence. It enhanced your ability to listen, and to discover the smallest mysteries of the world.

Erik began his prayer. "Dear Lord God Almighty, King of Heaven, King of Earth, and Creator of Everything ever created…" Erik paused, distracted. It wasn't a day of silence, but there still shouldn't have been this much noise, this early… No, he would concentrate and finish this. Then he would satisfy his curiosity and investigate.

"God, I have a question. I'm sure you already knew that, because I've been told that you're omniscient… I want to know why… Why was I born with a messed up face?" There, he had asked. Now for an answer. It had always bothered him. It bothered the monks too, even Timothy. Though they claimed it didn't matter, he always caught them staring, even after he had fashioned a mask for himself. Erik sat in silence, and waited. No answer. The silence remained just that, silence. Erik sighed and was about to emerge into the garden when he heard two monks stalking down the corridor.

"Where is that mask-boy hiding this time?" fumed one. Erik froze, waiting for the reply. It came.

"I have no idea. I never did understand why they let that devil-marked boy remain here…" The sound faded as the two monks continued down the passageway outside the garden.

Erik fell back into the bushes and bit his lip, holding back tears. He reached up and touched the mask, his curse. Would they never accept him?

Another voice, calling him this time, brightened his mood, if only a little.

"Erik—little Brother Erik!" yelled Timothy. "Erik please come out! I have a surprise for you!"

—

**Author's Note:**Yay! I finally wrote a chapter longer than a page! Though this is probably a one-time occurence (sigh). I will try, though. Actually I can't update for a while, because I've been a horrible procrastinator when it comes to summer homework, so I need to use this week when I'm finally home to catch up. (ahhhh! Life's not fair!)


	7. En Route to a Surprise

**Author's Note: **

Thank you so much to all of my reviewers! I love you all, but have probably lost everyone, due to my incredibly busy life leading to my inability to type fanfics. I know I promised to update a long time ago, but it was either sleep and keep my sanity or this. (oh wait, it was just sleep, I don't really have my sanity any more….)

Maître, you are crazier than I, begging your pardon, but in my opinion (and yours I think) that is a compliment. How in the world have you written 85 pages? You seriously need, and I mean need, to get an account somehow. Talk to your mother, something…. Love you anyway, and absolutely love the fic, especially fluff!

**Disclaimer:**

I own most things here, except Erik. See this chapter is purely original. (At least I think so.)

**Chapter 7: En Route to a Surprise**

Erik stumbled out of the bushes, hurriedly wiping the tears from his eyes. He ran towards the voice of Brother Timothy, who was down the hall searching in a side corridor.

"Ah, there you are! I've been searching for you since morning mass!"

Erik forced a smile onto his face. He didn't want to have to answer the inevitable question of "what was wrong" if he didn't. He didn't feel like reliving the past few moments, especially to Timothy, and it would lead to odd questions about why he had concealed himself behind a statue.

Erik was infamous at the monastery for his uncanny ability to hide anywhere. The monks could never conceive why he did it, and, at first, would barrage him with questions when he was found. Erik had never answered them, and never would. The monks finally desisted and let it remain a mystery. Erik could keep his secrets, and he wanted to.

Erik felt as if he had been hiding his entire life. He found this solitude a mixed blessing and curse. Alone, Erik found sanctuary from the stares; he did not truly need the mask then, but it would remain just the same, as if welded to his scarred flesh. There was a degree of comfort that he could derive from solitude and his mask alone.

Erik looked up at Timothy, who was still a few feet taller than him. "So—what is it?"

"It's a surprise! You wouldn't want to ruin it." He paused, a slight grin showing. "Knowing you, you would. Because you decided to run off, you get to stay in suspense for a little while because we have to go back across the entire monastery to the library."

"A book?" Erik prompted, now fully interested, and thankfully distracted from the earlier events.

"I won't tell, so stop guessing. Oh little Erik, even though I'm only six years older than you I'm not as naïve as you hope me to be." Erik shook his head, a real smile on his face this time. He had known it wouldn't work, but it was always worth a try, and, as the monks reiterated many times, he was too curious for his own good.

They began to plod along in silence. Erik was practicing walking as quietly as possible, when a thought struck him. He broke the silence. "Umm… Brother Timothy?"

"Yes Erik?"

"I've been wondering… Who are my parents?" Timothy stopped and stood stock-still. He looked down at Erik, trying to hide a frown.

"I was told by some of the older monks that this would happen eventually, and they preferred me to spin the tale of finding you orphaned on our doorstep. I can't do that to you, but you must swear that you will not tell that I told you. I think you're old enough, but no one else does. Do you swear?"

Erik stared at Timothy solemnly, unblinking. "I swear."

"Very well. But we'll have to take a longer route to the library, in order to avoid any interruptions." Erik nodded, body tense with anticipation. One of the mysteries of his life would finally be solved.

Brother Timothy glanced around quickly turned a side passage. He took a deep breath and began in a quiet voice.

"About nine or so years ago is when you first came to us. You were an infant and in the arms of a young, but bedraggled woman, your mother. Only she and the Lord know the identification of your father.

"Your mother had long, flowing dark hair, and dark eyes. I especially remember the eyes. They were vacant and soulless, as if some dark tragedy had taken away everything and left her a living corpse. She was sullen and gaunt; a perpetual frown was the only thing that lived on her face. She had the mien of a beaten puppy. Her hair was unkempt and dirt was streaked across her entirety. Any beauty she had hitherto possessed had vanished, stolen by the world. Only a spectre of the human she had been remained.

"The babe she cradled to her breast was wrapped in a thin cloth, and to our incredulity was masked. She clutched him, not with a loving mother's care, but as if it was her duty to hide it hide it from the world.

"Though I was younger than you are now, I remember that day very clearly. I was running an errand for one of the monks, and was passing by the main gate, when I realized that it was open, and that the gatekeeper was speaking to the very woman I just described. I overheard her muted pleas.

" 'I beg you sir, I beg you for sanctuary for this child and I.' "

" 'Of course, one moment.' The Gatekeeper turned, and seeing me passing by, called me over.

" 'Timothy, could you go and gather the elder and tell to meet in the welcoming room.' I nodded, and ran quickly through the halls, looking in all of the obvious places for the eldest monks.

"It took the better part of an hour due to the immensity of the monastery, and the many intricate passages, created to induce solitude. I finally found the last monk, and collapsed at the back of the welcoming room,

"The elders gathered around and took their seats, staring at the young woman. She had curled up (as much as she could in the straight-backed chair) a figure of timidity, seemingly disconnecting herself with the child she still held. She glanced up fearfully at the imposing row of monks, who more resembled a panel of judges than a welcoming committee. Such was the tradition of the monastery. The only payment for refuge was your story.

"The eldest monk stood. 'My child, what is it that that has brought you here?'

" 'Well, the child…my child…' She stopped, seemingly at a loss as to how to explain herself.

" 'Just start from the very beginning please.' "


	8. The Library, At Last

**Author's Note:**

Sorry that I've been so long in updating. School, and life in general are very crazy for me. I make no promises as to when I'll finish the next chapter. The best I can say is that at least this one's one of the longer ones.

**Chapter 8: The Library, At Last**

"The young woman closed her eyes, seemingly sifting back through thoughts, time, and events. She then straightened up and took a deep breath.

" 'My birth and childhood are unimportant. I am of low rank, important to society in filling a place as laborer. I help constitute the mindless rabble of the peasantry; blessed in no way and allowed to possess nothing but the air we breathe, and not even that willingly. Though as I matured I had the fortune, or misfortune, to catch the eyes of the local nobility, manifested in the second son of Lord Du Bois. As my Lord was very attached to the drink, and his wife had long since passed away, the necessary paternal restrictions were nonexistent.

" 'He seemed kind. I was starving. I was invited into my Lord's manor. My family urged me to go. I was one less mouth to feed, and might influence some kindness to them from higher ranks. But it was all in vain.

" 'You might all assume that you know the end. No. We both fell in love that summer. I thought. The father, my Lord, was absent. His son, also my Lord, could have taken advantage of me at any time. He had the grace legendary of a true nobleman. Over the summer he tutored me in the ways of the upper class. I in turn, taught him about reality, and introduced him to the town and the people he would one day lord over. The villagers began to look forward to seeing us, the happy couple coming bearing gifts from the plenty that we were able to spare from the manor.

" 'I recall how we would sit on one of the hills beneath a great tree and watch the sunset…' She paused, a smile flitting across her face. It was the first sign of joy that had even touched her features since she had arrived.

" 'It was like a dream, and just as insubstantial. Before autumn came his true colors showed. This was all merely his way to seduce me into loving him. This noble was not satisfied with rape—rape is unwilling. This noble wanted not only a willing victim, but one motivated by love not money. At least with rape it is not deception. Horrible as it is, there is no illusion of love.

" 'He had his way with me, I the willing, loving sacrifice, visions of marriage and happiness filling my head. But as soon as I conceived I found myself on the street, heart broken, dreams shattered, filled with both rage and the child of a monster.'

"She stopped, face contorted with pain, emphasizing the ingrained lines that came form wearing such an expression for too long.

" 'I returned to the only other place I knew, my former home. But, of course, they would not take me in. They did not even acknowledge my existence. I had failed them. I pleaded with my father, my mother, my siblings, but they had long ago decided, if this should ever happen, to be deaf and blind to me, the one who had forsaken their ranks for the promise of prosperity.

" 'So I left. I was penniless and had conceived the bastard child of that devil! That's what this is!' She exclaimed, indicating the child she held. 'All bastard children are. Correction. They are children of devils. Any man or woman willing to subject this punishment on their lover or the product of their _love_,' she spat the word 'is a devil. I am a devil.'

"With this admittance restrained sobs shook her body. A priest made a move to get up and comfort her, but she gestured him back. 'No. I must finish. And I do not wish to dirty your holy hands.

" 'I left, and traveled as far as I could in the only places that would accept me, that would show me love—churches and cathedrals. These are some of the few places on this planet where one can find unconditional love.' She hinted a smile. 'I admit I was running form my problems, but this one problem no woman can run from for long, though men are very apt at running as well. As I progressed further across the country my burden grew heavier, both figuratively and literally.

" 'I requested sanctuary at a minor cathedral, and they took me in. They granted me room and board so that I could have my child, and I did. A child of devils born in the house of God. He's a devil himself, though God was merciful and granted that he would only be half a devil. I thought to at least be given the kindness of an innocent child, perfect, angelic, untouched by the hatred of the world. Instead _it_ was scarred by our sin, as hideous as the act that devil planned from the day he laid eyes on me. A sin committed for his lust, my love. But, for my naivety, for the existence of my love, the child was spared half a face. Half of the heavenly image mirrored by God in creation remains. He is a mixture of what is sacred and what is not. But he is a monster! Man is claimed and created by God, but he is no man. He was produced by devils. He is a devil too! The Devil's mark is upon him, and He has claimed him for his own! I cannot even look upon him! That is why I have covered his face, and it must remain so forevermore. His imperfection, my sin, the Devil's mark, it must be hidden from innocent human eyes. You know how to deal with devils. He cannot harm you! Please, you must take him!' She was adamant and held the child away from her, offering him up. She set him on the floor and he, who had remained silent until then, burst out wailing and screaming, unending, as only infants can. The woman backed away quickly as if she had just dropped a poisonous creature. She averted her eyes and refused to look on him again. Instead she focused her imploring gaze onto the eldest of the monks. 'Please' she whispered. 'They refused me at the cathedral. I don't know where else to go, and I cannot murder my—my child.'

"The eldest monk nodded, and a look of relief spread over the young woman's face.

"I couldn't stand the screaming of the child any longer, and the monks seemed to be done questioning, so I darted forward, and drew him, you, to my chest. You quieted down once in my arms.

"The woman was ushered out. I never saw her again. Some of the monks remained to set up accommodations for you. After they had sorted things out, the head monk asked if I would like to help care for you. I assented, and though I was young at the time I have helped care for you ever since."

Timothy stopped. Erik was shaken, but refused to let it show.

"Are you all right?" Timothy asked.

"Yes, but what happened to her, my mother?"

"She died. Her eyes had seen too much hardship, and she had no more will. It was her last desire that she find a place for you to live. Though she said she wished you dead she could not kill you. Well, now you know."

Erik nodded. Now he knew.

The pair exited into one of the main hallways. The library. At last. Erik had almost forgotten where they had bee going.

Timothy led him into one of the obscure rows. He pulled forward a few books and reached behind them pulling out a tied roll of parchment.

"I found these a few days ago when I was looking for, well, a book. Don't open it here. It's a detailed map of the entire monastery. Very detailed. It shows quite a few passages I've never found. I knew you love architecture and that sort of thing." He leaned closer and whispered, "I thought you could do with a few really good hiding places. Have fun exploring." Timothy winked and stood back up, enjoying the ecstatic, almost maniacal look that was enflamed in Erik's eyes.

Erik hugged Timothy tight, unsure how else to express his gratitude in the restrictive silence of the library.

"I'll tell them I found you, but that they'll have to do that again themselves if they want you for anything." Erik smiled and hurried off to a hiding spot in which to study the map and begin his true exploration of the monastery.


End file.
